Brighten The Corner Where You Are
by TheLongStreet
Summary: Wilson's afraid of storms. House plays the big bad wolf. HouseWilson drabble. Enjoy!


Title: Brighten The Corner Where You Are

Author: TheLongStreet

Pairing: House/Wilson

Disclaimer: Sadly, these gentlemen are not mine. No copyright infringement is intended.

He watches the darkening clouds building, and through the thin walls of his office he senses the building tension in the air. An electric atmosphere lifts his hairs on end, causing his arms to remind him of childish brown pipe cleaners, although he does his best not to remember those days if he can help it. Despite the growing humidity, a chill takes root in his office, as if somehow his emotions were controlling the thermostat. As far as he knows, some satellite in space in handling that, taking readings from some deep pocket in the space time continuum where the temperature is always a mysteriously perfect seventy-five degrees.

House suggested that the heat in his room doesn't work. Or the air conditioning. Wilson prefers the satellite explanation, if only so that he can resist intentionally antagonizing the janitors, since he understands that it's not their fault. Probably he should antagonize Cuddy, pull some crap about doctors catching head colds, making mistakes that cost lives, but that isn't like him, and frankly, it just isn't worth the trouble.

The heat in House's room works perfectly. A few years back there had been some crisis about discrimination against cripples in the workplace, and the next thing he knows, his neighbor has a brand new AC and a yearly allotment of medicated, aloe tissues, which sit on his desk as a constant nose-thumbing up-yours authority gesture, but Wilson has never seen him use.

"House?" He calls through their plywood barrier, "Are you in?" There's no answer but there's a pretty good chance Greg's playing music, or just plain ignoring him, so he calls again, plaintively, hating the way the storm makes his voice sound weak, although he's never been able to do anything about it. When he was younger, he would sleep with one of his brothers, if they let him. That was before he learned about good touches and bad touches. These days, he usually pulls his feet up and sits, scrunched and miserable, in the lumpy office chairs until House saunters in and rescues him with that look that says "I know you," and makes his skin crawl with bad and good things all at once.

Today, the chill is persistent. Wilson slips his hands under his arms and presses them tightly to his sides, staring down at his paperwork with a small frown that generally precedes crying. Each lance of lightning drives cold shards behind his eyelids, illuminating every nightmare he has ever been awake for, sharpening every memory his years of therapy have dulled. Anxiously, he chews on an eraser and imagines himself in bed with every wife that has left him, longing for the fortifications of feminine flesh to make him seem strong.

"If you're thinking about my mother you're in big trouble." House! Wilson's eyes fly open, his gaze eagerly swinging to the doorway, his lips forming a wry negative as his friend limps across the threshold to slouch comfortably against the doorjamb, dark eyes familiar and warm.

"Were you thinking about me, then?"

"No." House scowls.

"Cuddy?" Wilson grimaces, desperately squashing the image before the details have a chance to color themselves in. Sometimes, he hates this male mind and its obsessions with physical intimacy, but mostly it's just embarrassing; revealing.

"I called for you," he mutters nervously as House shifts away from the doorjamb, "but you didn't answer." He watches his friend's tall grey shadow stretch sensuously across the pale backdrop of his office.

"Turn on the light, silly," House admonishes gently, reaching across the desk to switch on Wilson's desk light, "I was out getting coffees." As he pulls away, his sleeve trails innocently across Wilson's cheek, so slowly that Wilson forgets the storm all together for a moment, banishing his thoughts of pipe cleaners and boyhood with the big bad wolf.

"What do I owe you?" Wilson asks when his breathing settles.

"One kiss and we'll call it even." Wilson laughs. "Not at the office, House. I told you."

"Tell me what you were thinking, then, you man of mystery," he mocks softly. Wilson hates to ruin a puzzle, always vaguely terrified of losing House's interest, as if ten years of assurance have not been enough, but somehow, House always seems to find something new in him. There is always another question, another venue needing to be explored, a quality he has long ago stopped seeing in himself.

"I was just thinking that it's always warmer in your office." He shrugs. "Nothing serious. And nothing pervy," he adds with a warning tone. House raises his eyebrows, as if to say, "Not worrying about the storm"? But he doesn't, since there isn't any point killing ghosts.

Instead, he stares at Wilson with azure eyes and announces, "Well, a hospital's got to take care of its cripples!" But Wilson isn't fooled. He moves to unfold from his chair, feeling a smile ease past the corners of his mouth as his friend anxiously and impatiently looks on. Space and heaters are two explanations, but Wilson knows his truth is a third. The warmth has always rested in those strong arms.

-End-

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